Carlos finds the ring on a Tuesday.

It’s not even a romantic Tuesday. It’s a normal, messy, domestic Tuesday where Max has left three hoodies on the couch like he’s trying to start a textile museum, and Carlos is in the middle of reorganizing the dresser because apparently he has decided that peace will finally arrive in their home if socks are sorted by length.

Max is in the shower, humming under his breath, and Carlos is elbow-deep in the sock drawer when his fingers brush something hard and small.

A box.

Not a box. A ring box.

Carlos freezes so hard he almost forgets how to breathe. The world narrows into a single, stupid, shiny rectangle in his hand. He stares at it like it might bite him. Like it might be a prank. Like it might be a grenade.